


around here, everybody bleeds

by ime90



Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Real World, Dark Comedy, Definitely porny, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mafia AU, Multi, Peter is an accidental slut, Plot Twists, Uncle Ben dies, like really slightly, slightly insane peter parker, still lots of plot though, thank aunt may for that, totally not graphic or described in detaiil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-29 16:26:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5134610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ime90/pseuds/ime90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So let’s take a headcount here, right? We got Captain Steve Rogers, the morally just and righteous man. James ‘call me bucky, you twat’ Barnes, long range sniper and shadow of Stevie. Tony Stark, the millionaire more fired up then the US armed forces. Clint and Natasha, agents of death. Thor, the guy who wields a metal bat too heavy for even Steve to carry. Pietro and Wanda, the snatch and snitch squad. Bruce, Jane, and Darcy, the set-up & clean-up crew with enough brain power between them to take over the world (if they weren’t so in love with science). And finally, you got me. Peter Parker. Regular Joe who fell into this damned mess by accident."<br/> <br/> Peter Parker may be missing a few gears but that's nothing compared to the company he fell into by mistake. OR, the Mafia AU nobody asked for but I wrote anyways.</p><p>UPDATED 06/15/16: fixed formatting and did my best to beta it. still on the hunt for one though. volunteers would be appreciated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

HERE is thing about the Avengers. They were the meanest, toughest, armed-up-to-the-eyeballs gang this side of Chicago (and even that was changing). Steve Rogers, Captain of all Captains, led his group of ragtag ruffians with an ironfist (but a soft hand). Military wouldn’t take him ‘cause of all his health problems and then, one day, he just shot up. Like a bamboo shoot, my gods, that boy tripled his own weight in muscle and was still growing. 

His right hand man was a guy named James Buchanan Barnes but if you liked your balls where they were, you addressed him as Bucky. If you were lucky enough to be allowed to address him at all. Rumour has it there was a time where he worked for HYDRA, but say that around any of them boys and Bucky will have his metal arm so far up your ass, his fingers will tickle the back of your damn eyeballs. 

Stark came next in line, the abandoned son of the infamous Howard Stark, who shut his company down in the late eighties when he found out his partner was selling his fire to the other side. He went ahead and destroyed his shit, sold his shares, liquidated his assets and left it all for baby Stark. Then he went and shot himself in the head. So Mama Rogers, bless her soul, took the baby in and raised him right along side Steve and Buck, who spent so much time at their house he might as well have been a third son. 

Now Natasha and Clint are the real mysteries in the group. Natasha was some ex-KGB kid who found her way to America only to find out Americans were as big of assholes as Russians. So she played the streets and worked her way around and became known as The Black Widow; the hire-to-kill who got her jollies before feeding you lead. There are also people who swear Hawkeye, the revered name of Clint, used to be a damn carnie who was known for his amazing shots. That actually sums him up pretty well- the man is a miracle worker with a bow and arrow or a snipe. Never misses his target. Ever. 

The two stuck together like glue in the olden days, when SHIELD ruled the land, but when they burned down in the fire, the Avengers rose with the ashes. And just like their goddamned name, they Avenged. For the past decade the team had been working to dispel the fog surrounding the fall of SHIELD. And now? Now they’re starting to get answers.

Behind the scenes came the rest of the crown- Bruce Banner, Jane Foster, Darcy Lewis, and some old SHIELD contacts. Like Phil Goddamned Coulson who couldn’t die if you threw a bomb at him. Literally. Vietnam in ‘98 was such a fun time. The new foreigners were Thor and the twins, Wanda and Pietro. Thor was...well, nobody knew if he was from Greenland or Iceland but with all that muscle? Nobody wanted to ask. The man was twice the size of Rogers and about half as smart; the only thing that interested the guy was Norse mythology. Thor Odinson was also rumoured to be royalty. 

The twins were a different story. It goes like this- little Wanda and Pietro are kids in Sokovia (a european nation described as ‘bumfucknowhere’) who are just having dinner with their Ma and Pa, right? Then the roof caves in and the building shakes and life changes for them. Their tiny asses are stuck in what may as well be a paper house, three stories up with a bomb staring at them. And the name on it? Stark. So you figure they’ll simmer and they’ll boil and they’ll move on, right? Just become kids in whatever CPS system Sokovia has. Wrong. These tenacious assholes ditch their suits, work the streets, and save up enough money from selling their bodies and lifting wallets to get all the way to America. And to what? Hunt down Tony motherfucking Stark. So two sixteen year olds, who have been neck deep in the underworld since they were, like, seven come with two shotguns to shoot the hell out of the italian man.

Steve takes one look at them, ties ‘em up, tells them a real good story about a lil’ kid named Anthony and then lets them go. And they join. Just like that.

So let’s take a headcount here, right? We got Captain Steve Rogers, the morally just and righteous man. James ‘call me bucky, you twat’ Barnes, long range sniper and shadow of Stevie. Tony Stark, the millionaire more fired up then the US armed forces. Clint and Natasha, agents of death. Thor, the guy who wields a metal bat too heavy for even Steve to carry. Pietro and Wanda, the snatch and snitch squad. Bruce, Jane, and Darcy, the set-up & clean-up crew with enough brain power between them to take over the world (if they weren’t so in love with science). And finally, you got me. Peter Parker. Regular Joe who fell into this damned mess by accident. Aunt May is gonna freak.

 

* 

My name is Peter Parker. I was born and raised in Yellow Springs, Ohio. You must be wondering, where the fuck is that? That’s the point. It’s nowhere. It’s literally a place people drive through without noticing they drove through it. It’s small, it’s isolated, and even better, it’s family. Everyone is related to everyone ‘round here because nobody ever leaves (which raises some very suspicious questions such as ‘how related are you _actually_?). You are born here, you live here, and then you die here. My mom was the poor sap who fell in love with the ‘artsy’ vibe around here and married my father. When they had me, they moved out of my grandparent’s place, packed up, and started driving. They made it maybe ten miles out before a trucker t-bones them and suddenly Peter Parker is Orphan Parker and CPS ships me back to my grandparents.

Ah yes, sweet Grandmum and Pawpaw. Grandmum and Pawpaw were well into their seventies when I was born. As I grew, they aged, and then Poor Peter Parker was orphaned all over again when they die in the dead of the night on my tenth birthday. So Aunt May and Uncle Ben take me in. Uncle Ben _might_ have been a bit bitter that gramps and grams liquidated pretty much all of their assets (‘cept the house cause the house is older than my great-great-grandparents or something like that) and stuck it in a trust fund for lil’old me. 

I had exactly one million dollars in that account. Catch was I couldn’t touch it till I got accepted to a college. Enter, genius!Parker. Now, I had always loved science. Loved it just as much as I loved photography. Science was all about taking what was so mystifying in the world and breaking it down into little, digestible pieces. Photography was all about immortalizing it- taking something you can’t have and actually having it. Creating tangibility, a proof of a moment you never wanted to forget. So I invested every dime I ever made working as a bag boy at the local market into camera’s and extra text books and chemistry and physics kits- the whole shebang. Then some suits come ‘round and say, “Son, the state thinks you’re a goddamned genius. Please take this test.” So I do. And at sixteen, I graduate with honors via testing-out of the whole damned process.

So now Little Parker is even closer to his money. ‘Cept he finds out that sweet Uncle Ben, light of his life, is trying to steal it. So what do I do? Nothing. I don’t do shit cause he’s my guardian and Aunt May taught me better. Then one night, when Aunt May is cleaning through his desk, she finds some pretty incriminating papers. So she grabs a pair of latex gloves, pulls on Uncle Ben’s leather ones, beats herself with her favorite bronze statue of a king chess piece, and waits for him to come home. She leads him to the office, tells him to put on his leather gloves ‘cause she made some size adjustments, brains him, and then stages a struggle. 

All this time she sings to me, telling me with that honey sweet smile of hers that she had to do it- that she had to protect me. ‘Cause that’s what family does, okay Petey? And Uncle Ben ain’t never been family if was willing to do you dirty like that. So I nod my head and listen to her instructions and when the cops come, we put on an oscar worthy performance. I learned a lot from Uncle Ben. With great power comes great responsibility. Aunt May was my responsibility now. 

So that’s how the Parkers went from seven to two in about a decade and a half. Between my parents life insurance, my grandparents life insurance, and Uncle Ben’s life insurance, Aunt May and I never have to work a day in our lives, if we don’t want to. ‘Cept she tells me that Parkers are workers, always have been and always will. And she’s right. ‘Cause then I find myself actually applying for colleges. I do a few online, even attending the local one, and earn a couple of degree’s in some stuff that interests me. I’m seventeen with four bachelors in assorted sciences and I need more. So Aunt May and I put our heads together and we decide I gotta get out. Aunt May thinks I’m meant for something greater then getting tied down to some small town slag here so we go to the bank, I get a shiny gold card connected to our accounts, and Aunt May makes me apply for colleges. Real ones this time.

A month passes and representatives from places like Harvard and Yale are passing through, begging for a moment but I don’t even consider them. Aunt May thinks I’ll become some sort of bougie boy and I think she’s right. So when NYU sends a letter, I accept ‘cause Aunt May says my mom used to live there. Still got a brownstone in Brooklyn too. So I pack my bags and get my passport and, hell, alright, I cried a little but what boy wouldn’t? Aunt May refuses to come with me, says that it’s time I became a man and that it’s her fault for babying me after the Uncle Ben situation. I think she handled it just fine but she’d cuff me if I said that outloud, so I don’t. 

The brownstone in Brooklyn was not nice. It was old, decrepit, and smelled faintly like moths. So I invest a bit of cash (only 100k) into fixing it up and it looks beautiful. Hardwood floors, new appliances, fresh paint- the whole nine yards. I move in, I enroll in my classes, and I get to learning. And I realize how small and dumb this world is. I decide to focus on Chemistry with a minor in Photography ‘cause why the hell not? But it’s been almost a month and I’m light-years ahead of my classmates. So this is how I find myself, the month of midterms, in a pizza shop on downtown avenue. It’s small and rickety but I have explored the land and this piece of shit place has the best slice in the whole state. While my classmates are burning oil trying to study, I’m editing some photo’s while gorging on a large pepperoni pizza with extra cheese. 

And then I feel it. That twitch. Aunt May says I got spidey-powers, like that comic some of my kid neighbors used to read. I can’t really explain it ‘cept it only flares up around danger. I felt it in the car before we were t-boned, felt it just before I fell asleep on my tenth birthday, even felt it when Uncle Ben talked about my money. It’s like a tickle at first before it erupts into a flame that gets my blood flowing and my skin sweating. Like a rush of adrenaline. I look around. This guy must be six feet, easy. He’s three hundred pounds of hulking muscle with blonde hair swept back 50’s style and this ensemble of jeans too-tight-to-be-legal and a plain white shirt. And he’s just trying to walk by. But I see it, out of the corner of my eye, a shadow. And not no good one either. He’s got a small knife in one hand and a gun in the other and is trailing after the blonde like he’s his last meal.

This, right here, is where my life changes. I think about it sometimes. What would have happened if I had stayed seated? If I just minded my business? Focused on my degree’s, got a real job, made some of my own money? But then all I hear is Aunt May’s voice in my head. “We’re Parkers”, she says, “and Parkers are workers- always have been and always will.” So I go to work. Cause I may be a hundred pounds soaking wet but damned if I let some guy face a knife by himself. Don’t matter how much muscle you got- a gun is still a gun. 

I tackle that piece of shit into the brick of the alleyway, all fists and boney elbows. Asshole slices me on my jaw- from where my ear ends, straight across to my chin. It’s deep and it burns but I keep throwing punches. “I’d tell you to pick on someone your own size but I’m already here. I may not be some New York native, but I’ll be damned if you try to kill a guy in front of me for no damn reason than his wallet.” I’m yelling and I’m screaming and this guy keeps trying to get me with his knife but I knock it out of his hands. 

‘Cept I forget he has a gun. He raises it and he’s point it but not at me, at the guy behind me who’s quickly running towards us. And just as I hear the click of the trigger, I pull his wrist towards my chest. Damn. The guy’s eyes are about as wide as saucers at the red stain growing on my shirt. He shoves me off, and scrambles to stand but the blonde mass pins him to the wall. “That punk did you a real favor, you know? I woulda killed ya on site had you raised that shit to my face.” He lands one clean hit on this guy’s jaw and he’s out like a light. My vision is swimming and suddenly there is more than one voice talking to me. My lips feel awfully heavy and I barely manage to make out my last words, “Sonofabitch, did you catch that cars plates?” And then there’s laughter before darkness.

When I come too, I’m not at the pizza parlor no more. Or at my brownstone. Or even in the area surrounding that. I’m in that odd half-way place between the richy rich and the red-light district at a bar called, “Coffee”, which, to me, is odd in and of itself. But I don’t know this yet. I only see my room. This thick tan guy with salt-and-pepper hair is scribbling on his board and it takes me a minute to find a name to his face but when I do? All hell breaks loose. “Holy shit, you’re Bruce Banner”, I croak in awe. He scrambles to catch his pen which has gone flying in his surprise. “You’re like, the biggest name in nuclear physics! Well, you were. You disappeared.” Bruce looks at me with this odd look, like he’s happy to be recognized but also waiting for the other shoe to drop. Whatever he’s waiting for, it doesn’t happen, so he slowly bends down to pick up his lost pen. “Yes, I’m Dr. Bruce Banner. At Steve’s request, we’ve been treating you here at Cassa de Rogers. Feel up to talking?” 

He puts his clipboard down and drags a wheeled chair around. I frown and furrow my eyebrows. “Steve? I don’t know a Steve. Or a Rogers. Unless he’s that hulking mass of muscle that was about to get mugged last- er, actually, what’s the date?” Bruce get’s another odd look. “November fifth. Are you sure you don’t know Steve Rogers? Like at all?” I blink. “Steve and Rogers are the same person? Either way, nope!” He passes me a glass of water while he’s muttering to himself, clicking away at his phone. “So you mean to tell me you saw a six foot behemoth about to get mugged and your first reaction was to jump up and fight the low life?” I try to shrug but my chest flares up something awful. “A gun is still a gun. A man with muscle isn’t invincible. I figured two to one was better odds than one to one.” Bruce is looking at me like I’m explaining that the world is round and he’s been working off maps from the seventeenth century. “Right. Okay. Sticks and bones here saves _the_ Steve Rogers from being mugged in front of his favorite pizza shop. Makes sense.” Some more texting. 

“Say, you’re not from around here are you?” He asks this while logging something on his computer and from what I can tell it’s an email to someone. I hum, taking my time to answer his question while studying the room around me. It’s all white and sleek and filled with top-of-the-line equipment. It also has no windows. “I’m from Yellow Springs, Ohio.” I declare, watching an unsure expression cross his face. “S’alright. The only people who know about it are the people who live there. Where am I? This is definitely not a hospital.” Now it’s Bruce’s turn to avoid answering, stammering here and there about one thing or another. Then the double doors open with a hiss of air and lo and behold, the six foot wall of muscle is there. Completely unharmed. Jerk.

“I see the littlest soldier is up and running!” He grins at me goodnaturedly and I can’t help but grin back. Bruce looks like someone lifted a boulder off his back and is quick to escape through the doors the blonde came in through. Said blonde takes a set in the wheely chair and pulls up beside me. He’s fiddling with some wires and there’s a tickle at the back of my neck but I push it aside. “So I hear from Dr. Banner that you’re not from around here.” I literally said that like ten minutes ago and I’m not stupid so I hum umcommitally while searching for the security camera’s I just _know_ are there. And they are. Cleverly disguised as actual medical tools. “How many people are watching?” Steve doesn’t start from my random question. In fact, he grins. “What do you mean?” His eyes are laughing at me but from his expression I know he wants me to elaborate. The itch gets stronger.

“I mean how many people are watching us right now? There are like, seven camera’s in this room. You don’t even have a phone, only a gun on you. This isn’t a hospital.” Steve’s grin looks like it’s about to split his face in two. “So what do you think?”, he pushes. My mind is running at a thousand miles per second and the itch at the back of my neck is a full fire. I close my eyes. “I’m starting to think I was worried about the wrong guy in that alley way.”, I admit. I don’t have to open my eyes to know he’s got the world’s largest shit eating grin on his face. Something warm is pumping through me and I can feel sweat gathering at the nape of my neck as my adrenaline and the drugs battle it out. Hint: the adrenaline is losing. I manage one sloppy line. “I fucking got shot for an asshole with good hair. Punk.” And I’m out again.

 

* 

When I dream, it’s not in colour. I know this sounds like an odd fact, but it’s true. And there’s this one I keep having. I’m sitting at the couch, in front of Aunt May’s ancient TV and the doors to the office are open so I can see into it through my peripherals. And my eyes are locked on to the screen- watching some cartoon figure react outrageously to some gag joke. Aunt May is singing a lullaby she always sang to me when I had nightmares after finding my grandparents dead in their beds. She’s beating a bronze chest piece into Uncle Ben’s head and all I can think of is the sound of her voice whispering about sunshine and belonging and things of that sort. And my eyes get heavier and blood is starting to flood the floors and I can hear her now, “Wake up Petey, we got a show to put on.” ‘Cause the police are at the door and I gotta cry for all I’m worth or they’ll take me away, Aunt May said so, but my eyes are heavy. So, so heavy. And everything is so gray it’s all mashing together. So I close my eyes. ‘Cept when I close my eyes, they actually open. And I’m awake. What do you think about my dreams?

 

* 

When I come to, there is a different guy sitting at the end of my bed, fiddling with some kind of glass sheet. He’s short but with thick ropes of muscle that cinch at his waist. “Hear you tried to play hero with Rogers?” He’s not looking at me but we’re the only two people in the room so- “Yeah I guess. Pretty dumb, huh?” And suddenly he’s an inch away from cutting my neck open with a scalpel. “You think this is some kind of game, you little prick? Getting your rocks off by messing with the Avengers? If you gotta death wish, just say so, and I’ll take care of it. No need to try and play on Rogers heart strings.” He’s got fire in his eyes and the blade feels real against my skin. But there’s no itch. My face feels straight and bland, just as it did three minutes ago.

“You know what I think dude? I think you are so afraid of someone hurting Mr. Rogers you’d rather shoot first and ask questions later. I think you would kill for him. Die for him. Do anything for him.” My words hit home but he just sneers at me. “Anybody with a pair of eyes could tell that. Just seems like you’re the only one with a pair of balls to say it out loud.” We hold each others eye contact for another beat. “You know what else I think? You won’t kill me.” The vein in his arm is throbbing and his face is turning so red I’m actually wondering if he’ll get a nose bleed. “Kid”, he says softly, “You’re really pushing the line here. I’m gonna give you one chance. Who the fuck are you?” I crack a grin. “Like you said, I’m just kid. A stupid one from Ohio who thought muscles needed actual help. And I was wrong.” I take advantage of his surprise and press forward, turning the tables so that my neck is pressed so hard against the scalpel it should draw blood. It doesn’t- the blades dull. 

“Kids got great imaginations, you know that? So let’s play. I’m going to imagine that I took a bullet would for Mr. Rogers. And instead of calling an ambulance, he drags me back to his lair with camera’s, no windows, and one entrance slash exit. I’m going to imagine that I just met the most brilliant scientific mind since Hawkings, who went missing years ago. That he acted as if I should know, and for some reason, fear Mr. Rogers. I’m going to imagine someone who holds him near and dear is threatening me at knife point to give up my intentions. Do you know what this imagination looks like?” Sweat beads on his forehead. He drops his hand, picks his phone backup and starts texting again. Then he leaves. 

I wonder how long it will take him to guess my bluff cause I have no idea what this looks like to be honest. I don’t know what they want from me, or who they are, or what they do. I just know I’m stuck here, at least until I heal up. The itch in my neck flares up and I snap my head around. No one’s in the room. I take a wild guess. “I never pegged you for voyeurism, dude.” The italian man stalks back through the door like a riled kitten. “First of all, my name is Tony. Secondly, don’t ever call me dude. And third of all, I hope you’re fucking happy cause Captain Tight Ass is now up my case about treating his precious hero like shit. How do you fucking do that? How do you know all this?” He is spitting actual nails by now and it’s the most amusing this I have ever seen. Sure he threatened to slit my throat and I’m stuck here in this weirdo’s basement but as long as my neck doesn’t flare up, I’m good. I’m safe. “Call it a sixth sense. I have a channel for danger.” I give him a cheeky smile and he screams in frustration. Actual, literal frustration. 

“Just because you managed to charm your way into a mob boss’s heart doesn’t mean sh-” Rogers comes charging through the door. “Stark! He didn’t know that.” Too late. Damage is done. I stare wide eyed at the couple before me. Tony looks like he wants to throw up and Steve is torn between annoyance and genuine curiosity. I take a deep breath and wait for the tingle. Nothing. “Why aren’t you going to kill me?” My question strikes something in Tony, who turns to Steve as if he needs to hear this too. Steve shrugs. “My mom would kill me then.” It’s funny how out of all the mind blowing things that have happened in the last few hours, this is what actually makes me faint. Good night Peter Parker. And may your life be terribly interesting. 


	2. [if you'd like to play]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Peter be nimble, Peter be quick! Peter, jump over the candlestick!_

The silence between the two figures in the room was deafening– wooden smiles and blank stares fixed on the comatose figure. “It shouldn’t be this easy.” Steve gives his italian brother a noncommittal grunt as he whistles a jaunty tune. 

Like a well oiled machine, the two move in sync exiting the room, setting up the security protocols. Steve knows it shouldn’t be this easy, shouldn’t be this simple or well versed or smooth. But it was. The false air of warmth that had once surrounded the pair had dissipated with their guests consciousness. “Kids smart.”, Tony offered, “But you’d think he’d know bait when he see’s it.” Steve cocks a smile. “Eh, youth are always like that. Give them an inch and they’ll presume a mile.” 

The control room is the antipathy of the medward, warm and broken in with fresh, natural light spilling in from the sweeping windows of the fourth floor. Bucky’s got a record on, folded up impossibly small on the window sill while Jane and Bruce argue over something on his tablet. Clint’s throwing darts again (he’s progressed to lazily bouncing them off light fixtures to land them on sporadically placed targets) while quoting Fast and Furious with Natasha, who has a doll from down the street doing her nails.

“Look, I’m just saying, Paul Walker was a gift and deserved better but you have to see the irony in his death?”, Clint cajoled, landing a ringer on the board behind the bust Tony had made after himself. Natasha grunted. “For those ten seconds or less, I’m free.”, she jibed. Clint nodded solemnly. “Amen to that, brother.”

You see, the thing you need to understand about the Avengers is that they’re not villains, per se. Just think of them as your friendly neighbourhood patrol squad. With guns. And drugs. And, ok, sure there’s a little murder involved but hey- is it really a party if someone hasn’t died? The point is, they’re really not bad people. A little bloody? Sure. But not bad.

Bucky blinks from his spot on the ledge and grins brightly at Steve. “There ya are, punk! Was wonderin’ when you’d stop picking fun at the twink in the basement.”, he cheered, turning the dial on the record player down in anticipation of his favorite thing in the world: getting mob boss Steve Rogers to flush. “Buck! You can’t just call people that! Actin’ like your Ma ain’t beat some sense in that damn trap you call a brain.” There is a moment here, where something like heat creeps over his shoulders and touches his ears. Bucky swallows hard. 

Clint’s next dart lands in Tony’s ass and the genius squawks indignantly. 

While the Archer and Tony battle it out, Steve takes a moment to lean over Bruce’s shoulder and gaze at the tablet. “Pull up the med ward on the big screen, would ya?” Natasha grumbles, shooing the nail doll off as the fast car blurring across the TV disappears to reveal the security film in Peter’s room. 

Bucky stared blankly at the spot where one Steve Rogers once stood.

Bucky Barnes was born on a particularly rainy March day, just as spring began to move into Brooklyn. His mother, bless her soul, took her chances and disappeared into the night on a greyhound leaving little James on the doorstep of the local catholic church. From here, it’s all sort of predictable: James finds a blonde runt getting the snot beat out of him in an alleyway across the street and good god did that boy put up a fight. The two become thick as thieves and when Bucky turns fifteen and, subsequently, very obviously gay, Steve’s Ma takes him in as one of her own (which Bucky tries not to think about too hard because he is almost positive the women knew the exact number of times he had wanked off to the thought of her real son (which is like all of the times)).

The details get a little blurry here- some say he kills Sarah Rogers, and defects to HYDRA freely while others claim he is kidnapped after Hydra goons kill Steve’s mom. The point is, there is a shiny marble slab in Greensworth that gets hand polished every March and Bucky goes missing. Gone. Two long years pass and the streets of Brooklyn get a little rougher. The people whisper about someone who looks like, ‘that poor James kid, the one Sarah took in?’ who is storming the place, hitting up folks with crippling protection fee’s in representation to the germanic gang. When Steve is tipped off, he goes in with nothing but the lid of a garbage can to protect him to talk to the guy. Long story short, Cap does what he does best (inspiring impromptu speeches) and earns three bullets and one brainwashed Bucky for his troubles. 

They don’t talk about what happened there much. There’s a story where Steve charged him with the lid and Bucky shot, not knowing it was him. Clint’s favorite is the one where Steve disarmed Bucky and accidentally shot himself. The truth, though? The truth is Steven Grant Rogers walked into that room with full intentions of getting his best friend back and James Buchanan Barnes looked him square in the eye and asked him, “Who the hell is Bucky?” And then he shot- once, twice _thrice_ \- and Steve went down. 

They share words while Bucky tries to stem the blood flow because something strong and thick inside of him is gearing up with anger and it’s the first time he’s ever felt something in so long and he needs this, needs to feel and experience and _live_ dammit. What follows is a three year de-programming binge, where Sam and Natasha carefully bleach out the stain that was ‘The Winter Soldier’ from Bucky’s psyche.

Things aren’t okay. They’re better, of course, but that’s like saying getting stuck in space is better than getting stuck in space without a spacesuit. Some days it’s like those past five years never happened and some days it’s like it’s all that’s ever happened. There are gaps in Bucky’s memories, like how did he get his metal arm? And what really happened that afternoon in Sarah Rogers parlor that ended with her dead and him missing? What’s so great about Tahiti and why is it a wonderful place? These are the things that keep him up at night, curled against Steve’s impossibly large chest (and when did _that_ happen? Last he remembered, he could fit both his hands around Stevie’s waist!) and shaking like a leaf. 

Steve’s voice drags Bucky out of his melancholy. “Pietro! Wanda! Whaddya got for me?” The Sokovian twins saluted their Captain cheekily before sprawling at Natasha’s feet. “Kid’s story checks out. His hometown is very, how do you say? Boring?”, Pietro remarks casually. Wanda snorts, saying, “That is not even the half of it. He is smart, Captain, very smart. The people in town tell me he is cursed- since his birth, five of his six relatives passed on, leaving him with a small fortune.” 

Here Pietro sits up, eyes gleaming wickedly. “You will not believe the bit of gossip I caught from the grocer. Apparently, word on the street is he killed his own Uncle. Some say it was because the man was abusive, either towards him or his Aunt, while others say it was because of the insurance money. Imagine that! A millionaire before you are old enough to buy a pack of cigs.” The two snicker and jibe at each other in russian, quieted only by Natasha’s sharp words in their shared language. Steve is chewing at his bottom lip, staring at the comatose figure on screen. Tony stands swiftly from where he is wrestling with Clint to join him.

“So what do you think? Is he Peter Parker, the unlucky college kid? Or Peter Parker, the mass murderer?”, Bruce asks, lacing his hands behind his head. Tony lets a shark-like grin spread across his face. “Oh Brucie, he’s neither. He’s Peter Parker, our little puzzle.”, he purrs.

When Anthony Edward Stark turned eleven years old, he got a dozen second hand puzzles from the local thrift store from Mama Rogers. He spent many afternoons piecing it together slowly with her and Steve, curled at the kitchen table. “I could solve this faster,” he had said to her, quite plainly. But she had smiled at him and said, “Could you?” And he did. In one morning, he finished several of the thousand piece puzzles with the the ferocity of a mad man. So Sarah bought more puzzles and brain teasers and riddles for him, letting him pick them apart and put them back together with the care and precision of a doctor. She said to him, “You’re a smart boy, Anthony. Don’t waste it- the world is your oyster.” Anthony Edward Stark loved enigmas. Especially when on the surface they didn’t appear to be.

“Who are you, Peter Parker?” The sleeping figure slumbered on.

* 

Some mornings, I wake up slowly. I start with my toes, wiggling them and testing how cold it is outside of my blanket. That feeling of ‘wake’ roves over me slowly. Those are the mornings I enjoy best, when it’s just me and my thoughts and the beautiful sunrise.

This is not one of those mornings.

The sharp sting of a weathered palm meeting my cheek pulls me from my (dream? nightmare? dark abyss?) unconsciousness. The tubes and needles that had previously filtered through me like a science experiment were gone. An odd, tight feeling bloomed across my lower right pectoral. I blinked. Steve was arguing with a brunette man maybe just as big as him, if not the slightest iota smaller. Tony and Bruce are conversing with each other over data points on one of the monitors.

“Morning starshine!”, Tony calls out, a complete one-eighty attitude change from our last conversation. My neck doesn’t tickle so much as flare up in a phantom burn. “What? No scalpel? And here I thought we were something special.” Tony whistled lowly and made a show of scraping his eyes over my form. “Kinky! I like it. Sorry toots, but I prefer my partners with a little more _meat_ up top.” He leered at me comically while Bruce sighed and gave a fond smile to the italian idiot. “Don’t mind him, Mama Rogers dropped the dunce a few times, I reckon.” The big brunette gives me an odd smile, as if he’s been practicing it in the mirror. 

That’s not what bothers me. What bothers me is _the metal fucking arm that looks like it came straight out a robo-cop movie._ I guess my gaping was pretty obvious because the guy tugs at the short sleeve of his shirt desperately, as if the strip of cloth could prevent me from knowing he’s half-bionic. “So! Peter Parker from Yellow Springs, Ohio. Your story checks out. Nice house by the way. Had some guys check your place out, scope it for anything interesting.” Tony is using some metal stylus to pick dirt out from beneath his nails nonchalantly but that phantom burn? It’s starting to itch. “Now that the cats out the bag...we’re going to have to talk.” Bruce gives me an apologetic look and I would have thought he was being sincere if he wasn’t gripping that tablet so hard.

Right. Talk. With the Mafia. I take a moment to wonder how my genius IQ of 171 managed to get me in this situation. Wasn’t I supposed to be ultra suave and intelligent? The world was a cruel, cruel place. “I think I’m gonna have to phone a friend here, Harrison. My options ain’t too bright.” No dice. Not even a smile. The lax feel of the room had tightened since I started this fucking internal monologue. “I, uh, I have friends? They’ll miss me?” Tony cracked a smile at that, but something dark and hungry was growing in his gaze. I had a feeling my smartass comments from yesterday were about to be repaid- with interest. 

“You don’t even know, do you? You’re just stringing us along by our dicks, playing us for the fools you think we are. But don’t you get it, _Petey_? There’s no slick talking you’re way outta this one.” I can feel myself getting twitchy and I wonder how I must look? Greasy, bloody, and caked in sweat. Tony keeps getting closer and the echo of his italian loafers clicking against the marble floor has me swallowing dryly. The fire on my neck is starting to spread. “It’s a damn shame. Smart kid like you? Falling into this crowd? But you made a mistake, boyo. You played hero with the devil and Stevie don’t like owing nobody nothing. You think we don’t know about you? Poor, orphaned, genius Parker? You belong to us now, kid. And don’t nobody leave the Avengers family. Not unless their cold and six feet under.” His grin was thin and full of shark teeth, glinting under the flourescent lights of the room. Nobody spoke for a moment.

Then, one by one, they leave. I blink. The burning has not receded. I wait a few moments before allowing myself to laugh. “If you wanted to play a game,” I giggle, “All you had to do was ask.”

* 

Clint twitches from his post in front of the security camera’s feed, sharp eyes dissecting the kids shaking figure on the bed. Natasha murmurs something to him only to frown when he sharply dismisses her remark. He is bothered by the boy laughing in med bay. He’s….confusing.

Clinton Francis Barton was rumoured to have spent his childhood trapezing with carnies and that’s- that’s actually true. Just, not in the way you think. His stage name, Hawkeye, was given to him not just for his sharp eyesight, but his immediate ability to discern enemies from allies. It is this talent that leads him to trust Natasha, that leads him to pledge his allegiance to Steve, that leads him to kill his own brother Barney. But Peter? 

“It’s like I’m looking at two different people. Just- smudged together.”, he mutters to himself. This is not the first time his gift has acted up but the implications that arise with this are too difficult to think about so he focuses harder, training his eyes on the rise and fall of Peter’s chest, the way he jerks and twitches his neck, the swooping motion of his eyes. The entrance of Steve, Tony, and Bruce does not draw his gaze but he speaks aloud to them anyways.

“When I was sixteen,” he says, “I saw the bearded lady in our troupe get raped and killed.” The room stills. “I used to spot for them, you see. Pick out in the crowd who we could swindle, who we could help, who we had to stay away from. And there was this one guy, small with a christmas jumper on and no company. I pegged him for an easy pick. So Louise, our lady, she pulled him aside just as we were closing down shop. They passed me by on my way to the kitchen and he had looked at me for just the briefest of seconds. I remember mulling about it, turning the gaze over and over in my head.” Peter on screen hummed to himself. “I kept thinking what was so odd? What was rubbing me wrong? By the time I got to the tent, the deed had been done and fucker was gone with the wind.”

Clint reached over to grab the tablet Bruce had been scrolling through earlier with the twins scrounged information. “What did you say the Aunt did again?” Steve frowned. “I didn’t. I think she was a social worker or something.”, he said. Clint closed his eyes, rubbing the heels of his palms against them. “Figures.”, he mutters. Tony leans forward, placing a hand on his shoulder, “What is it?” 

“It’s the eyes.”, Clint says suddenly, “You can teach the body to do just about anything, _say_ anything. But the eyes are too raw, to soft for that.” Nobody says anything after that. 

“So why go through all this trouble? Why poke and prod at him? Cause he got crazy eyes?”, Bucky frowns from where is perched still on the window seat. Bruce pipes up from where is cataloging data, “Ah, that would be my fault. Had this been a simple shooting, we would probably not be here. Alas, the kryptonite of a scientist is curiosity. When I got on the scene and had Jarvis do a scan. his adrenaline levels were through the roof and dropping fast and I just couldn’t help myself.” He craned his head around to look at Tony before going back to logging numbers. “Would you like to do the honors?” Tony grinned, “Of course! Gather ‘round children, I’ve got a story to tell!”

“When I was but a wee lad playing ‘look out’ for bars doing some under the table deals, I ran into Bruce. Now, Bruce, as we all know, was a very famous scientist at this time, playing with the big boy toys. But imagine my surprise when he tells me something _extraordinary_! He says to me that he found what may be the key to the perfect soldier. That it wasn’t gamma rays like his companion Betty thought, but something older and closer to home. Something more instinctual. Only, he couldn’t risk it getting out. Not till he had proof.”

At this point, Bruce had finished his business with the computer and turned to the big screen where charts were pulled up and took off where Tony left. “Our flight or fight responses are some of the oldest human architectures since the body itself evolved from that of a tadpole. When I scanned Peter in depth that day we first made contact, his adrenaline levels had dropped to nearly nonexistent, spiking only till the very end.” 

“I thought it was odd and sent Tony in to needle him a little- put on a show. And we got nothing. Then, then he says something that get’s me thinking. He says to Tony that he won’t kill him, that he’s got some sort of sixth sense.”, he scrambles to illustrate this with his hands. “What does it mean?”, Steve asks. Bruce deflates. “I don’t know.”, he replies, sheepishly. They stew together quietly, rolling the information across their minds. “That’s why had us go back in and stage another confrontation. I need to know how his body reacts when threatened sincerely. It’ll take me a few days to crunch these numbers though.” He sits down with a sigh and gets at it, barely registering the fleeing bodies as hours pass. 

* 

Contrary to popular belief, I am actually a morning person. Years living under Aunt May’s strict reign have taught me that there is a certain grace to loneliness, a certain element intangible to our clumsy, human hands. I like mornings because mornings mean coffee, and silence, and the soft crow of early birds; it means the crisp, fresh air of new days with the faint smells of yesteryear lingering on the breeze- a phantom from the past. Mornings are dusky pink skies, blending into soft blues and purples and reds. It is a time that feels intimate to me, solidus and giving in nature.

But then the day starts. The clock gets ticking and engines get roaring and people get moving and it begins to feel less… _mine_.

I have not seen a morning yet, for the days I have toiled in Casa de Rogers. Life here is not unpleasant. They don’t beat me or starve me or play awful elevator music in an attempt to rewrite my brain. In fact, since Tony had his little show a few days prior, I have not seen a single person. Just my thoughts and my IV drip to keep me company in this polished cell.

I wonder if this should bother me?

* 

It’s been a week and Bruce is pouring over numbers and Clint is keeping vigil while the team sleeps in. “You never said,” Bruce says. Clint frowns, “Said what?” Bruce gives a humourless laugh as his fingers fly across the board. “About the guy. And his eyes. What did you see?”

Clint allows himself this one, brief respite and closes his eyes, picturing the moment like it was yesterday. “Nothing. I saw nothing.” He balls his fists up.

Peter stares directly into the eye of the camera, closing his eyes to feign sleep when Clint gathers his strength back to look again.

Neither of them speak for the rest of the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited: 06/15/16
> 
> I need a beta. Sorry for the late edit-update?


End file.
